Sunday, Sept. 16, 2012: Frenemies

I wish Gavin would stop telling me, "I don't love you" so much because it's kinda bumming me out. Oh, and hitting me. I am not digging that, either. Ever since Gavin started preschool at the beginning of this month, he's become a little terror. At first we chalked it up to the fact that he spent all summer home with both of his moms and now, BAM, he's in day care three full days and two half days a week and both of his moms are at work every day. I can totally understand how that might be a tough adjustment for a little dude. Hell, it's a tough adjustment for me, too. But this "I will no longer listen to you and will, in fact, hit and spit at you while saying hurtful things" shtick is really wearing me out. I did a Google search for "my three year old has turned into a nightmare" and I came across a discussion page that recommends a book called Your Three-Year-Old: Friend or Enemy. Even the title is depressing. But from what I understand and what I've read, Gavin is not beyond the range of normal, but he is beyond the range of pleasant too much of the time.

He has also stepped backwards in toilet learning. Right before preschool and perhaps the first week in even, Gavin had been using the toilet like a boss. He even slept in underwear one night last week and woke up dry. We had reached what I thought was a turning point and I thought I could see the light at the end of the diaper tunnel. There was even a nearly two week stretch when I couldn't even remember the last time he'd pooped in his pants. He was wearing underwear during the day, often backwards so he could see the picture on the rear, but still. And he was trying really hard. He'd spring up from the table or his room and say, "I've got to go poop!" or "I've got to go pee!" A couple of weeks ago he had an accident at Laura and Jamie's but he tried so hard to make it to the toilet. I wasn't there, but Laura reported that he ran like hell from the living room to the bathroom but just couldn't get his pants down in time and peed on the floor. According to Laura she heard the saddest voice ever from the other side of the bathroom door say, "I didn't make it." A similar thing happened today, in fact. Stacy was in the bathroom and I heard Gavin say, for the first time in at least a week, "I have to pee!" But the bathroom was occupied. Before Stacy could open the door I heard a very despondent Gavin say, "I'm peeing in my diaper." I went to him and as soon as he saw me, guess what? He pouted and tried to hit me. Good times. I understood that he was really upset about not making it to the bathroom and am bummed myself since he hadn't shown interest in awhile and this makes me fear he may be set back further, like, "Screw this potty thing, it's too hard." Poor little dude.

I would also say, for the record, that the worst feeling ever is not liking your own kid -- thinking your own child is an asshole, even if just momentarily. Also for the record, my son is not an asshole, he is just teaching us the gift of patience. Xtreme Patience, as it were. And man does having a three year old run away from you in a parking lot and then spit at you when you get near him test your patience. If there was a Patience Olympics, I am definitely in training. Actually, I think this is the Patience Olympics and it's a decathlon on an endless loop with no breaks.

That's not to say Gavin is never sweet. I hit my head on the van door while getting him into his car seat today and he asked if I needed a kiss. When you sit in the back seat with him he always says, "Hold hands?" as he extends his hand to you. He likes to cuddle up while we read books. And Stacy and Gavin had the following exchange the other day while playing together in his room:

Gavin: "First you dump the M.U.S.C.L.E. men in this dump truck and then in this dump truck and then in this yellow one."
Mommy: "Like this?"
Gavin: "No. It's okay, Mommy. It's okay to be unright. Try it again."

Gavin's musical tastes continue to evolve with my careful curating of pop music on his ever-growing playlist on my iPod. His current favorites are the Spanish version of "Mickey" by Toni Basil, "Jump" by Van Halen (he digs that music video, too), "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor (one of my favorite songs as a kid), and Todd Lundgren's "Bang the Drum All Day." His number one favorite is still, however, "I Can't Drive 55," which both of us sand along to in the car on the way home from the grocery store today. Singing along to songs is a new thing to him and "I Can't Drive 55" is one of the only ones he'll do. That song has become his touchstone when it comes to talking about speed limits and speeding. Like this conversation that Stacy and Gavin had while Gavin sat behind the wheel of the van pretending to drive while it was parked in the drive way:

Gavin: "I'm going 30! Is that faster than 55?"
Stacy: "No."
Gavin: "Then I'm going 7! Is that faster than 55?"
Stacy: "No. How about 75? That's faster."
Gavin: "Then that's the amount I'm going."

Tomorrow starts his third week of preschool. I can't believe my kid is in preschool already. He's in a Spanish immersion Montessori school, which means he gets to do whatever he wants, but all in Spanish. So far he seems to have gravitated to food-related art. He's come home with no less than 4 different finger painted broccoli stalks on four different days and two potato pictures decorated with brown crayon and, for reasons I don't quite get, several strands of brown yarn. Unlike his years in day care when Stacy dropped him off every morning, that is now my job. And it is not easy. Getting a kid ready in the morning, especially in his current Mad Max state, is challenging to say the least. I am not a morning person either. But if he doesn't get ready and out the door in time then I will be late to work, so there's high pressure to get asses (his and mine) moving in the morning. I find that if I get him dressed first and let him play and then get ready myself that helps because then I don't have to wrestle him into clothes at the last minute, which is guaranteed to be the exact minute he decides to shut down the cooperation area of his brain. The worst part about the morning drop off, however, is that every morning he says, "I don't want to go to school" and he cries when I leave. Not only does he cry, but he has to be pried (gently, but still) off of me by one of his teachers and I have to, basically, escape. It's not a good way to begin the day. But on the days I also pick him up (Tuesdays and Thursdays) he is always so happy to see me when he emerges from his class, thrusting his latest broccoli or potato masterpiece into my hands before giving me a huge hug.

See, I know he loves me. Even if he says otherwise. I am, however, really glad that he hasn't learned how to say, "I hate you." Yet.